Broken china
by tanya-arianneNL
Summary: Grief can be a tricky thing. One shot set after Matthew dies, from doctor Clarkson's POV
1. Chapter 1

**A bit of a one shot. A rather bad one I have to admit, but I needed to write something else for a change since I'm a bit blocked on my other story. Still, I hope some of you'll enjoy it and if you do please leave a review.**

He had been there when they told her. Had seen how not a muscle moved in her face when she heard the news. She didn't cry, didn't even sit down. She just stood there, her eyes blank, devoid of all emotions.

He had been there during the funeral. She was standing next to the grave, dressed all in black. Nothing else gave away her mourning. The other faces were grim, tear streaked even, but not hers.

He had sat across from her at the family dinner. She hadn't said anything. Not even when Mary jumped up and fled from the table. Lady Mary, the epitome of a grieving wife, her complexion pale her eyes reflecting a sadness he hadn't thought her capable of.

Not at all like _her._ She didn't storm out. In fact she didn't do anything at all. She just sat there, her back straight as could be. Any other would have assumed that the realisation had sunk in yet. It sometimes happened. They would have thought the blow was yet to come.

He knew better. It wasn't at all like her to be so quiet. Her eyes were empty, almost as if she wasn't really there. It was as if she was hiding deep inside, where only she could go. Alone with an overwhelming sadness.

No one at that table could really know what she was going through. Not Lord Grantham, not Branson, not even Lady Mary. They had lost an heir, a friend, a husband, but none of them had lost a son. They had all been very fond of Matthew, but they hadn't been there when he was born, hadn't heard his first words or seen his first steps.

She had. And she wasn't about to share that pain with anyone. Perhaps she felt that the unspeakable hurt was the last connection she had to her son. Or maybe, deep down, she already knew that no one would understand.

He watched her leave without saying goodbye, wondering what would happen when she got home. Would she cry then? He wanted to reach out to her so badly. Comfort her if such a thing was even possible.

It had seemed like a good idea when he was walking home to the village. But standing in front of her door, he wasn't so sure anymore. Still contemplating on whether or not to knock on the front door, he heard a crash inside.

"Mrs Crawley?"

His voice was hesitant. He didn't want to invade her privacy. He knocked three times, calling her name a little louder this time. A soft whimper reached his ears.

"Isobel, are you alright?"

No answer came and for a moment he wondered whether he had imagined even hearing the sound. Yet when he turned around, thinking she might want to be alone, the whimpering returned, louder this time.

"I'm coming in."

Concern had overshadowed his intention to give her space. He knew he was invading her privacy, walking through her door uninvited. Cautiously he opened the door to the living room, aware that she might not want to see him.

What he saw however, had his eyes widen. The floor was littered with broken china; the tray she normally used to serve the tea was lying upside down beside the mess. Isobel was kneeling amidst the shards, her shoulders shaking violently. He could see her fragile frame being racked by soundless sobs as she pressed one hand against her mouth. Blood flowed from a cut on the other hand, but she didn't seem to notice. Without thinking he rushed to her side, feeling her recoil when his hand touched her back.

"Doctor C-Clark-son"

She turned to him, still shaking. Her face was blotched from crying and unshed tears were still pooling in her eyes. Even now she was beautiful, he thought, immediately berating himself. For a moment he was sure she was going to ask him to leave. He braced himself, adamant to insist upon staying. Then, before he could do as much as blink, her lips were on his with a ferocity that nearly made him topple backwards.

"Isobel?"

He managed to croak when she pulled back and started to tear at his buttons. Unable to move in his shock, he stared at her quick fingers.

"Isobel stop"

His voice sounded steadier now. He gently took her wrists into his hands and pulled them away from his half opened shirt. There was no embarrassment in her eyes, like he expected, only unbearable pain.

"Please Richard"

It was probably the first time she had called him by his Christian name. He had imagined this moment so often, dreamt about it. But in his dreams she wasn't crying. In his dreams they weren't sitting on the ground surrounded by a shattered tea set and her black dress wasn't darkened by blood.

"Let's get you to the hospital. You might need stitching."

He ignored her pleas. Though it took him a great amount of effort not to get lost in those brown eyes and give in.


	2. Chapter 2

**I wasn't sure whether to write a second chapter for this, but I couldn't resist :). This is for all the people who reviewed/followed/favourited, I hope it meets your expectations. My apologies in advance for any mistakes, I wrote this rather quickly and I'm not a native speaker.**

As it turned out, the ugly gash on her hand did need stitching rather badly. The make swift bandage he had put on it for the time being, had already begun to turn red once they reached the hospital. He had his back to her while readying his equipment. Mainly because he needed to do his job as a physician, but also because he found his heartrate would go up every time he looked at her.

It was hard to believe this was the same woman who had been crying her eyes out. Then again, it was even harder to believe this very same woman had all but thrown herself at him just a few minutes ago.

The woman who was sitting in front of him as he stitched her hand, was wearing her blank expression as a mask. She wasn't shaking or sobbing, she was perfectly still. Almost too still, he realised.

One of the challenges he faced as a doctor, was to make his patients stop moving. However, now he found himself wishing she had hissed when he locally sedated her. Instead she didn't even flinch when the needle broke her sensitive flesh.

It was disconcerting to say the least, to see Isobel Crawley sobbing on the kitchen floor. But it was nothing compared to seeing her so perfectly composed, almost cold even. It was like her light had gone out. Like her spirit had been broken.

They didn't speak on their way back to Crawley house. She hadn't protested when he said he would walk her home, but she didn't take his arm when he offered. He kept steeling glances sideways, trying to catch a glimpse of the woman he used to know. It was too soon, he realised.

He bade her goodnight at her doorstep, despite knowing that good had nothing to do with this night. When there came no response he turned around. It had been a long day and although sleep was the furthest thing on his mind, he was looking forward to sitting quietly next to the fire and reading a good book.

Before he had the chance to take even one step away from the house, he felt her good hand closing around his upper arm. His heart skipped a beat when for the second time that night he felt her lips pressed against his.

"Isobel, I can't…"

He moved his hands to her shoulders to push her away, finding it was taking him a lot more effort than expected. Her hand was still on his bicep, holding on tightly while her other hand had winded up on the back of his neck.

"You don't have to play the gentleman. It's alright, I know what I'm doing."

She tried to kiss him again. Momentarily he was taken aback by the strength of the slight woman before him, but eventually he managed to keep a semi-respectable distance between the two of them

"You want to forget. I understand that Isobel, I really do..."

He wanted her to know that he wasn't rejecting her, that he had no desire to reject her, but that he didn't want her to regret her actions in the morning. In that moment he was a truly selfish man, he didn't think he could bear the look on her face.

"No, I don't think you understand at all.

Her voice was sharper, reflecting the fire in her eyes. Right here, half in his arms, she was coming alive again.

"Matthew was my son. If I don't remember him, who will?"

Doctor Clarkson wisely kept his mouth shut, knowing it would do no good to remind her she wasn't the only one feeling the loss. She wasn't ready to share the grief. It was hers and hers alone.

"I don't want to forget. I just need to feel something…."

She paused for a moment as if at loss for words. Her eyes were darting back and forth looking everywhere but his face.

"Physically. I need to feel something physically. Even if it's only more pain."

She finished, still refusing to look him in the eye. He was silent for a moment, stunned really. Isobel had never been one to shy away from a subject, but he hadn't expected her to be quite this forward.

"What makes you think I would hurt you?"

He asked after a moment, when her words had finally sunken in.

"Because I would ask you to."

It wasn't more than a whisper, but he heard it anyway.

"Isobel…"

Suddenly it dawned on him what she was trying to do, what she'd already don really. She blamed herself for Matthew's death. There was no other explanation for her request than her feeling the need to somehow punish herself.

"When I found you, tonight…"

He wasn't sure how to ask the inevitable question. There was nothing to soften the blow, no amount of caution to limit the damage.

"That cut on your hand, did… did you do that to yourself?"

He saw her eyes widen momentarily, before she closed herself off from the world again. Her hands, which had been still fisting the lapels of his jacket, fell limply to her sides. Two steps backwards increased the space between them.

"Forget I asked."

She turned around and vanished into the house.


End file.
